


Gossamer Strands

by ElderberryWine



Series: Grey Hills and Green [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Part of the Grey Hills and Green series.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-21
Updated: 2010-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElderberryWine/pseuds/ElderberryWine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <i>Waymeet</i> "Get Cracking" Yule challenge, wherein we were assigned an ancient Yule decoration on which to base a story.  I was assigned spider's web. Doesn't that just send signals of Yuletide cheer to one and all?  Of course, there are all the <i>other</i> connotations that item might have might have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gossamer Strands

The small creature froze suddenly, as she sensed movement and light. This had once been a quiet corner, but as of late her modest activities had been disturbed more often. The broken windowpane had been repaired, although she did not know it, and her supply of food had thus dwindled. Still, it was enough, and the great lumbering fly, slowly buzzing through its last day, had been trapped with little trouble, and would be a plentiful feast for several days.

The larger creature who came and went had no mind to search her out, however, and the small room in which a spider's web would have been previously immediately noticeable, was no longer in such an immaculate state. The earthen walls had begun to crumble with neglect, and the carefully laid wooden floor had not been scrubbed in many a month, but had had to make do with only an occasional hasty sweep. The fireplace was sooty, and tended to smoke if the fire was not laid exactly right, indicating, without a doubt, the presence of birds' nests. It was the sort of room, at the moment, in which a small web could linger near the window, overlooked and undisturbed.

The fire was started quickly this evening, for it was the time of the shortest days of the year, and there was no reserve of warmth in the chilled room, no lingering sense of coziness that comes from a well-tended comfortable blaze every morning to take the chill off, and another generally begun about teatime, precisely just before it becomes a necessity. One candle had been placed on the hearth, actually quite near her domain, but she was still not noticed. The other was placed on the nightstand near the bed.

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

The bed had been a source of concern for Sam. He and Frodo had certainly had to make do with many an uncomfortable spot in which to lie for the night, and it seemed unreasonably finicky to eye any actual bed askance, yet Sam could not help but think of who might have occupied that bed since he and Frodo had last made this bedroom their own. "May as well as had orcs stayin' here, from the looks of the filth they left behind," he had grumbled to himself, and that was a thought he did not care to pursue any further, at least when it came to the bed.

So he had taken the now matted and stained feather bed outside and up to the back hill, slitting it open to let the feathers stir and then loft up into the early winter winds, scattering where they would. At least the birds, come spring, might find them in the odd place or two, and use them in their own nests. The cloth cover he dragged back to Bag End, and stowed it in the farthermost cellar. There was no sense in waste, for there was waste aplenty, all about him, seemingly. When he had a moment to spare, it could be boiled, to give it a good cleaning, and cut up for rags. There was always a need for a sturdy rag or two. But there was much more that needed doing before he'd have the time for that chore.

The bed itself he had wiped down thoroughly with hot sudsy water and a towel, and there was even some walnut oil that he had found in the garden shed. The previous residents of Bag End had obviously had no horticultural leanings, and the garden shed had remained largely undisturbed. He had rubbed the smooth cherry wood bedstead again and again with the oil, until the aged wood gleamed once again, and then turned, in his mind, to the matter of the mattress. Straw would not do at all, he had decided firmly. Bad enough that the Master of Bag End had to make shrift with a poor mattress such as that for the time being, but he was determined that Frodo's world should be put to rights again, and it would start with a proper bed.

Unfortunately, feather beds started with geese, and there was a noticeable shortage of any common fowl about. Daisy and the gaffer had managed to secret a small hen in Number Three, since the Gamgee smial had only been raided once, and then given up as having no loot worth the mention. The small speckled fowl, having free range of the kitchen, seemed content enough and donated eggs as compensation. Finding sufficient feathers however, from either chicken or duck or goose, to accumulate for a feather bed, did not appear to be likely in the near future.

Sam sighed, and slumped against the bed frame. He had not let Frodo come into Bag End yet, since the initial horrific glance through the familiar round green door, but he was determined that they should spend Yule Eve, this very night, here. The gaffer and Daisy were more than generous in providing them with a room of their own at Number Three, with the gaffer taking his bed into the kitchen and Daisy braving the chilly and barren front room, but Sam yearned to be back in his own home, and that, no matter the shape it was in these days, was Bag End.

Well, there were, at least, blankets to be had, and he had spread the thick woolen coverlets, which Daisy had washed for him, throughout the smial to dry. It nearly broke his heart to enter some of the rooms; the study, with Bilbo's painstakingly collected library vandalized and mutilated, or his own kitchen, nearly unrecognizable as the midden that it had been made into, but he had resolved to start with the bedroom, so he turned a blind eye to all else and refused to be distracted. Frodo had the affairs of the Shire to be attending to, right now, but Sam had the restoration of Bag End as his first priority, and that could only be done room by room, seemingly.

But now the coverlets were piled to their best advantage on the bed and laid over with a crisp and clean sheet. There was another sheet and a couple more blankets for warmth in the frosty night carefully laid on top, the garbage that Starkey's men had left behind was gone, and the room was, at least, presentable. Sam gave a weary last look about. It was not as he wished it to be, it was not as he remembered it in his longing dreams, but it would do.

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

"Now," Sam said softly, drawing Frodo into the room with a firm hand about his waist. "Now you can open your eyes." There had been no chance for much in the way of Yule decorations, but Sam had found a bit of holly to place on the hearth, and he had brought a basket with a modest loaf of bread along with a small tub of butter, a bit of cheese as well as sausage, and some dried apples, thoughtfully packed by Daisy, with him. Sam was well aware that this constituted a feast, these days, in the Shire. He had added a couple of small mugs, for he had found, forgotten in the farthest corner of the cellar, a last dusty bottle of Old Winyards. Bag End had seen many a festive Yuletide dinner, but probably none more indispensable than this one.

Frodo slowly opened his eyes at Sam's soft murmur, and gazed at his old room once more. It was barer than it had been, and undeniably rather shabby, but it was clean, and familiar, and unspeakably dear to him. And as he stood in the warm, inviting heart of his old smial again, Sam's hand still around him, he felt something within him, a barrier he had not known was there, slowly begin to fall. Perhaps they could find their quiet life together again, he thought suddenly, not realizing that until just now that he had been denying himself that hope. Perhaps they could come back again, after all. "It's beautiful, Sam," he whispered, unaware that tears had begun to slowly run down his face.

"Of course it is," Sam gave a tender smile as he lovingly reached up and gently turned Frodo's face toward his own. "It's home."

"As is anywhere with you, Sam," Frodo breathed, meeting Sam's mouth with his own. Their kiss was sustained and thorough, and Frodo felt the stirring of something he had not felt in far too long, the tremor of desire suddenly awakening to his quickening senses. Oh, could it be? Could he ever regain the joy and peace that he had known here with Sam? It was Yule-Eve, after all, and a night on which extraordinary things had been known to happen.

As always, Sam had sensed the change in his mood, and drew Frodo closer. One of his hands had slipped lower and curved itself lovingly around Frodo, and Frodo broke breathlessly away from the kiss, softly groaning with the craving for those beloved, experienced hands. "Oh, Sam," he gasped, curling further into Sam's embrace. "I don't think I've been very good, lately, about telling you how desperately I love you."

He could hear Sam's warm breath, brushing by the tip of his ear, as he gave a short laugh. "Not to worry, me darling, I'd not be forgettin' that, but 'tis always that lovely to hear." But there were Sam's hands, now running up his back, between his jacket and shirt, and he felt his knees weaken at the sensation. He tugged quickly at Sam's shirt, hungry for the touch of Sam's skin, as his hand, so altered these days, readily found it. No matter, for that particular change made no difference at all, since there was Sam's warm delectable skin under his craving touch, the very same as it had always been before. And even though Sam had been changed as well, not having nearly the desirable hobbit roundness he had once had, still Frodo could dream of nothing more wonderful than what his hand found, and he ran it lightly, under the shirt, up Sam's chest, and felt nearly faint from the glorious bliss of the caress.

Sam had given a slight whimper at the touch, a low, very nearly mewling cry, and closed his eyes as Frodo, by the candlelight, saw that there were silent tears running down his cheeks as well. That was almost more than he could bear then, and with a rush of passionate love, tinged with more than a hint of sorrow, he swept his other arm back around Sam's shoulders and, running his hand now ardently up Sam's chest, found his mouth again, and kissed him fiercely. He could feel Sam's knees start to buckle under the press of his embrace, and pushed his willing lover back against the bed, falling heavily over him. Sam's eyes were tightly closed now, but his fingers wrapped themselves desperately around Frodo's shoulders and his mouth opened eagerly to Frodo's, and their tongues met and joined in a way they had not for long dreary months. It was, very nearly, as if it had never happened before; this careful yet nearly frantic exploration and enticing seduction of mouth and breath, or if it had happened, it was in a distant memory and to someone who was not the same at all.

Sam's eyes finally flickered open and, even though Frodo could still see the lashes wet and glittering in the wavering candlelight, his eyes were gleaming golden with happiness. "I believe we've forgotten summat, Frodo me love," he whispered, his mouth curving in a smile as he drew a caressing hand down from the side of Frodo's face to his shoulder, and plucked lightly at his sleeve. "We naught be needin' this, now, would we?"

Frodo laughed lightly, and began to slowly proceed, button by button, down the front of Sam's shirt, pausing for a kiss between every one.

Sam sighed with pleasure again, concentrating on the sensation of Frodo's painstaking undoing of each button. He shut his mind to all else, all the fears and doubts and regrets, for this was their own home, and this was his own beloved Frodo, whose hands touched and teased and aroused him, and whose breath quickened in his ear, and this was Yule Eve. Slowly he let his own hand drift down Frodo's arm, and under his jacket, feeling the finely woven shirt and the wiry strength underneath it. His legs were still over the side of the bed, pinned there by Frodo's weight, but he pulled out one knee and drew it up, curving it against Frodo's back and holding Frodo close to him.

Then Frodo was finished, and his shirt was swept to either side as Frodo's dark curls bent over his chest. Sam gave a short harsh gasp, throwing his head back, as Frodo found those exquisitely sensitive nubs. Nearly without thinking, he slipped his hand between their bodies, finding the fastening to Frodo's trousers. With a dexterous twist, they were undone, and Sam impatiently pushed the fabric down with just one hand, the other still tightly clutching the shoulder of Frodo's jacket, and nearly instantly found flesh and warmth and all that he could possibly desire.

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

The other unnoticed occupant of the room had paused at the rustling of clothing, and the whispered intermittent exchanges and gasps, but soon came to the conclusion that there was nothing here to fear. Painstakingly, she spun her silk in the chill near the window of the darkened room, and prepared another concentric ring about her web. The stars were sharp and fiercely bright in the darkened sky on the other side of the round window this Yule Eve, but the spider gave them no heed either as she worked steadily above the flickering candle. It wasn't long before there was a sharp cry, soon answered, from the other side of the room, and then all was quiet save for the crackle and snap of the burning logs.

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

The candle was beginning to gutter low as the two celebrants finished their Yule Eve dinner. Swept away by their emotions though they had been, they were still too close to the memories of those horrible weeks of starvation and deprivation to let a mealtime go by them. Instead, nestled tightly together, they ate their meal gratefully, and savored every precious last drop of good Shire wine. When the food and drink were gone was the time for more whispered exchanges, and slow kisses, and tender loving touches. It was only when the remnants of the dinner had finally been tucked neatly back in the basket, and Sam had reluctantly left the bed in order to snuff out the candle on the hearth, that he happened to look up to the top of the window, and gave an involuntary sharp intake of breath. There, stretched across the wooden window pane, it glittered. Lacy and seemingly fragile, spun of the sheerest of threads and catching the candlelight from within and the starlight from without, both impossibly beautiful and hauntingly reminiscent of great pain and anguish, the spider's web glistened. Frodo lifted his head up at the impulsive sound Sam had made, and saw it too. Rising out of bed as well, he joined Sam at the window and threw an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close.

"It's a Shire spider, Sam," he murmured softly.

"Aye," Sam agreed, slightly grudgingly, but more than a little distracted by the warm body next to his. "But I'd not be carin' to share our smial with it."

Frodo laughed softly. "I suspect she has plenty of company in the rest of the smial, which you have not let me see yet. But look how lovely her web is, my dear. We'll not be needing to open this window for months yet, and she'll be gone come spring." He paused for a moment, and then added, in a lower murmur, " 'Tis Yule Eve, after all, Sam, and a season for us all to give what we can to each other, however meager though it be."

"Oh, Frodo," Sam replied, with a slight catch in his voice, as he turned towards his companion, catching him up in his arms and burying his head in the crook of Frodo's neck. "Never too little, me darling, never that. Always all I could ever have dreamed of, Frodo-love."

Though Sam's face was turned from him, Frodo smiled wistfully and gently stroked the dark blond curls with one hand, still holding Sam tightly to him with the other. "It's always been all my heart, Sam, at least it's never been anything less than that. But look, my dearest, the snow has begun."

And so it had. As Sam turned to see, blinking back the tears that he refused to let dampen his spirits this night, he saw, past the gleaming web, the soft white flakes beginning to silently and gracefully float past their window.

"Seems to me you've misplaced the mistletoe," Frodo's eyes gleamed as well with a rare peace, "but let's just us pretend it's there. A merry Yule Eve to you, my own dear Sam."


End file.
